


Ours are The Hours that Aren't Defined

by MisPronounce_and_MisAccent



Category: The Gentleman's Guide to Vice and Virtue Series - Mackenzi Lee
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Felicity Picks a Lock, First Kiss, Flirting, Getting Together, Insecurity, Love Confessions, M/M, Monty has a Bad Idea, Percy is Confused, Pining, hey gays im here with some, other tags??, sappy dumb boys, the age is kinda nebulous, theres a clever bi lady OC bc i love women and this is my fic, yeah all that good cliche fanfic content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-10-30 18:02:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17833460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MisPronounce_and_MisAccent/pseuds/MisPronounce_and_MisAccent
Summary: Or: Faking a Relationship for Disapproval and Profit"So, in order to preserve my honor, I told my father that I am, actually, in a committed relationship. Which, of course, I’mnot, but I really wanted to see his reaction if I told him I was dating a boy, so I mentioned that, and then he askedwho…”Percy covers his face with one hand as I trail off. “Oh Monty,” he groans. “Tell me you didn't.”





	Ours are The Hours that Aren't Defined

“Percy, darling, I need a favor.”

I pretend not to be wounded when Percy doesn't even glance up from his book. “What did you do this time, Monty?”

“Nothing!” He scoffs but still doesn’t look up. “So, I may have had a slight slip of the tongue, but really, it was my father's fault far more than it was mine—”

This gets his attention. Finally. “Did he do something?” His eyes dart over my features, looking for any hint of blood or the indication of a forming bruise. He relaxes, just a bit, when he can't find anything, but my comment has set him on edge— he is no more fond of my father than I am. It’s pretty goddamn endearing.

“Don't worry, Perce. Nothing’s hurt but my pride.” I amble over to his chair and lean over him, glancing at the words on the page he’s reading from. Looks boring. “He was just on my ass about being queer, _again_ , which, by now, is honestly more annoying than hurtful.”

“What did he say?” He closes the book—took long enough—and it’s nice to know my story is worth something to him.

“Oh, the usual. That I should stop fooling around with boys, that it’s a ploy for attention, that it will ruin my reputation. And I tell him, again, it is _not_ a ploy, I _am_ actually quite attracted to men and remind him that, in this the year of our Lord 2019, my life is hardly going to be ruined by kissing a bloke. To which he then responds by saying that of _course_ it’s just for attention since I have fooled around with girls, as well, because _apparently_ he hasn’t listened the last twelve times I explained what bisexuality is—”

Percy is smiling at me as I ramble and, honestly, it should be illegal for a boy as pretty as him to look at someone so softly. Especially if that someone is madly in love with him. Especially if that someone is me. “Monty, what do you need from me?”

“I’m getting to that, wait a moment.” I clear my throat and look off dramatically into the distance. It’s mostly done to annoy Percy. “So then, the focus switches to how I am not serious about relationships, and how I am essentially squandering our family name and dooming myself to a life alone because no woman will ever want to marry me after I’ve fooled around with so many people. So, since I do rather like my pride—”

“Do you? I hadn’t noticed.”

“Shut it. So, in order to preserve my honor, I tell my father that I am, actually, in a committed relationship. Which, of course, I’m _not_ , but I really wanted to see his reaction if I told him I was dating a boy, so I mention that, and then he asks _who_ …”

Percy covers his face with one hand as I trail off. “Oh Monty,” he groans. “Tell me you didn't.”

“Look, I panicked! I don't have that many male friends, you know.”

“You could have made someone up!”

“Yes, I could have, but that would have required faking an entire relationship with a nonexistent person and wouldn't it be far easier to just get you, my best mate, the light of my world, my favorite person—” I go a bit heavy on the endearments, partly because it's true and partly because flattery is one of my best tactics when it comes to getting what I want.“—to just act a _bit_ infatuated with me?”

“It's more work for me,” Percy says, but I can already see him weakening. “And how are we going to convince your entire family? Maybe your parents, but Felicity—”

I wave off his concern. “I'll just tell her. Knowing her, she'll think it's hilarious. Well, if she’s capable of understanding hilarity. Not sure if she has enough of a sense of humor for that.” He’s still looking skeptical so I give him my award-winning pout. “Come on, Perce. For me?” I can tell that The Pout is not having its desired effect— Percy looks unmoved— and I’m not sure if I’m more disappointed in him or myself. He’s not allowed to be immune to my charm. “ _Please._ Just give it three weeks. Then we stage a break up, act awkward for a few days, and go back to being the delightful best friends we are.” I add on, as an afterthought: “That is, if you're not already in love with me by then.”

That earns a laugh, which is both a comfort and a bit of an ache, because I adore Percy and making him laugh, but it is really never pleasant to hear the person you fancy laugh at the notion of liking you. “I suppose I can go three weeks. I’m sure my family will be thrilled to see I’ve snatched up one of the Montagues. Though they might have preferred Felicity.”

I wrinkle my nose in disgust. “God, no. Felicity is far too young for you; plus, she’s my sister, so _yuck_ ; and, not to mention, between figuring out how ace she is and all that medical reading, she’s far too busy for a proper relationship.”

Percy chuckles again. Goddamn beautiful. “Don’t worry, Monty. I doubt I will be asking out your sister at any point in the near future.”

“Good.” I clear my throat and outstretch my hand. “So, I’ll make it official: Percy Newton, may I have the honor of being your boyfriend for the next three weeks?”

He takes my hand. “The honor is all mine.” I raise our clasped hands to my mouth and kiss the back of his hand, right at the knuckles. He laughs and pulls his arm away, but not before I have memorized the feeling of his skin against my lips.

Look, maybe I’m not Felicity, but I am not a _complete_ idiot. I know that if Percy is any good at pretending to be my boyfriend—which of course he will be, because God knows he isn’t capable of being anything less than perfect—I will only fall more in love with him. But, what the hell? I’m going to be in love with him anyway, might as well get a chance to pretend he actually feels the same.

As I leave the room to find Felicity, I can’t help the small smile on my lips.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Felicity, I’ve finally done it. Percy Newton is my boyfriend and we are to be lawfully wedded this spring.”

Without looking up from her phone, she says, “No, he isn’t and no, you won’t be.”

“Way to put a damper on my mood.”

She snorts, which is more emotion than I’m usually able to get from her. “That’s your own fault. Maybe if you actually did something instead of moping and pining twenty-four hours a day, you’d be a bit more cheerful.”

“I am entirely cheerful, always, and, for the record, I do not spend _every hour_ of each day pining over Percy. There are a good ten hours I spend sleeping—”

“Dreaming about Percy?”

“Maybe, but not the point. And I like to spend at least half of the other hours either hopelessly drunk or in bed with someone. Or both. So, no, _not_ twenty-four hours spent moping over one boy I happen to fancy.”

“You’re a disaster, Monty,” she says, as if it’s news to anyone. “But I would hope you don’t spend as much time in bed with strangers now that you’re _allegedly_ dating Percy.” I open my mouth to ask her how she knows, but she beats me to it. “I overheard what you were saying to our father.”

“By ‘overheard’ I assume you mean ‘eavesdrop on’?”

She dismisses my words with a wave of her hand. “Call it what you will, Monty. The real question is, why couldn’t you come up with a better fake boyfriend than Percy?”

I frown. Yes, she’s clever and, no, I’m not a _great_ actor, but— “You didn’t believe me for a second?”

“No,” is all she says. I’m about to complain before she resumes speaking in that know-it-all tone. “I would’ve noticed if you and Percy had been sleeping together and, besides, your voice falters when you lie.”

“I’ll give you the falter, but couldn’t our relationship be non-sexual? Maybe we’re saving ourselves for marriage.”

Felicity raises an eyebrow. “Percy, maybe. But in a relationship with you, there would have to be sex.”

“Absolutely untrue. I wouldn’t do a thing without consent.”

“A good man, Monty. But don’t worry— our father is a bit too dense to pick up on it. But it’s obvious to me.”

“That’s some relief, I guess.”

Felicity hums in that way that preludes a speech. I brace myself. “It’s an idiotic idea, you know.”

“I do know, in fact.”

“You’re smitten, Monty, and it’s already painfully obvious. How much worse do you think you’ll be, now that you have a justification for acting in love with him?” As if I’m so much an idiot that I haven’t already considered that.

I roll my eyes and turn away. “I’m leaving, Felicity. My boyfriend needs me.”

“You’re going to get yourself hurt, Monty.” She sounds almost sad, if she was capable of that. It’s unnerving.

I flash her one last grin before leaving. “Felicity, that’s all I ever do.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Dinner is tense. 

But, of course, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

My chair is next to Percy’s—as usual—and my hand is covering his— not as usual, but not as uncommon as one might think; Percy is very tolerant of how tactile I am with him. My father has been watching us the whole time, casting narrowed-eyed glances at the two of us all meal, which I pointedly ignore. Mother is feeding the Goblin crushed up peas or carrots or whatever it is that babies are forced to eat, and Felicity has her glasses on and is staring pointedly under the table, meaning she definitely has some medical journal pdf open on her phone. My family is a bit fucked.

When we’re about halfway done eating, my father lays down his fork. “Henry, stop this.”

I tilt my head to the side as if I have no idea what he could possibly mean. “Stop what? Eating? I’m afraid I’m not finished—”

“Stop this scheme you’ve dragged Mr. Newton into,” he speaks over me, and I cannot help but wince as he raises his voice. God, I wish I was over that. But I can feel Percy’s hand tighten around mine, and that’s really all the confidence I need.

“My relationship,” I say, holding up mine and Percy’s hands as proof. “is hardly a ‘scheme’. I thought you’d be happy I finally settled down.”

“I might be, if you actually had. But this relationship is fake, obviously.” He turns to Mother. “You can see through it, right?”

Mother looks up from feeding the Goblin, taking a moment to register the conversation. “Hmm? Oh, I think Percy and Henry are lovely together. It was only a matter of time, really.” Despite her apparent support and soft defiance to my father—bless her—I’m struck with a worry that catches me off guard. I know I’m hopelessly, obviously in love, but I didn’t think my _mother_ would catch on. God, I hope she just said that to be nice.

“They aren’t together, _dear_ ,” my father grinds out, and I’m reminded that there’s no lost love between the pair of them. For one, I hardly think my father is capable of any positive emotion, let alone love. And, though Mother hasn’t given me much, she definitely deserves better than him, and I can tell she doesn’t love him. I can’t imagine marrying someone with whom I wasn’t entirely, irrevocably in love.

I can’t imagine marrying anyone but Percy.

“I don’t mean to overstep, Mr. Montague,” Percy finally speaks up. It’s almost funny, both because of Percy’s refusal to address my father by any of his more eminent titles, and the absolute irony of his perfect manners. Percy is the only person whose hatred of my father rivals mine (Felicity is fiercely ambivalent), and yet he delivered the words as cordially as if he and my father were old business partners. “But I can assure you that what Monty and I have is real.”

“Henry has never had a _real_ relationship in his life,” my father says, as if it would be impossible for me to change. As if the idea of me caring about someone is preposterous. As if he would support me in any relationship that wasn’t with a beautiful, rich, white young woman, and even that might not be enough. I’m about to interject, before he continues speaking, “I hardly think he’s capable of it.”

I open my mouth to speak again, but Percy beats me to it: “Mr. Montague, I love your son.” And I swear my heart stops. When it starts again, full of the knowledge that his words mean nothing more than they did the million times Percy has said them before—undeniably true but never the way my stupid, selfish heart wants—it’s a little more broken.

He says it so calmly. ‘ _I love your son, Mr. Montague._ ’ No falter, no hesitation. And that’s how I know it’s a lie. Never, never could I have stood in front of my father, with Percy at my side, and said ‘I love Percy Newton’, not when I’d received no indication that he loved me back, not without tripping over every word and, knowing myself, crying. Even if I had to for this game. Even if none of it was real, I know I couldn’t do it. But Percy could— because to him, they’re just words.

“I love him,” Percy continues, like a knife hasn’t just been jammed into my chest. “And he loves me, too. I know what you think of his history, but I’ve been with him through every moment of it. I’ve seen his past, but in the present, I’m his, and I’m willing to stay for whatever the future holds. Our future.”

To keep myself from doing something incredibly embarrassing, like crying or telling him I love him in earnest or leaning over and kissing him right there, I pull my eyes away from him to look at the other faces around the table. My father has his mouth pressed together in a thin line and, God, I could kiss Percy just for making that man shut up. Felicity has looked up from her phone, eyes narrowed in that way they do when she’s trying to puzzle out a particularly difficult section of her college-level medical school textbooks. Mother is watching Percy, smiling as if everything he’s said is perfectly normal but still charming. The Goblin seems more focused on his toys.

Glancing back at Percy, I see him flush a lovely shade of pink and sink back into his chair, embarrassed. “I—” he starts, before shutting his mouth and looking back down at the plate.

“I couldn’t have put it better myself,” I step in, not really wanting to hear my father’s eventual response. “Percy, love, you really do have a way with words. Now,” I stand and remove my napkin from my lap, before offering a hand to Percy. “My boyfriend and I must be going. Futures to plan and all that. Ta!”

Percy takes my hand and stands up, nodding to my family, lacing his fingers through mine, and letting me lead him out of the dining room. The two of us against the world— just like it’s always been. The moment we’re alone, I throw myself into his arms.

“You’re bloody brilliant, Perce,” I say into his shoulder as he moves his arms to wrap around my waist. I’ve said it a million times, that I hate how much taller he is than I am, but hell if I don’t love the way I fit in his arms.

“I know,” he says, then, quieter: “It wasn’t too much?”

I step back and rest my hands on his shoulders so I can see him properly. “It was perfect. Seriously!” I add, when he looks doubtful. “I must’ve been dating the wrong people all this time; no one has ever said anything that gorgeous about me before. You’re going to make someone very happy one day.” I tack on the last sentence hastily, as if I didn’t just say, point blank, that I’d rather date him than any of the people I have dated in my life. It’s a shit cover, really, and if Percy wanted to read into the words correctly, he could have, easily.

It’s moments like this where I’m damn sure he already knows how I feel—what with two years of longing glances and obvious flirtations and pet names and telling him in every way but those exact words that I’m absolutely in love with him—and that he has, for my sake, decided to ignore it. It’s a mercy, really, cause I think I would die on the spot if Percy Newton told me we couldn’t be friends because of the way I felt. I’m so very lucky to have him, as a friend, that it feels marvelously unfair to wish for more. But I suppose I’ve never been sensible.

“It was true, you know,” he tells me, and if I loved him any less I’d kill him for all the heart attacks he’s given me in the past ten minutes. But I’m not a _complete_ idiot, and even as foolishly hopeful as I am, I don’t allow myself to fall for his wording before he flushes again and rushes to correct himself: “I mean, not…” he trails off, and I nod. Of course. “Not… but the rest. I don’t plan on a future without you. As long as you’ll still want me around, that is.”

“After that speech, you’ll be hard-pressed to get rid of me.” I lace my fingers through his and start pulling him down the hallway towards the front door. “Now, I didn’t actually get enough to eat, so I’m taking you out for dessert.”

“How romantic,” Percy deadpans, just barely managing to keep from smiling.

I, on the other hand, have no such reservations, and flash him the type of grin that’s made more than a few people fall straight in love with me. Pity he wasn’t one of them. “Nothing less for you, darling.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

“God, Perce, you look like a bloody _model_.” The words slip out of my mouth before I can hope to stop them. But, I suppose, he deserves to know the truth. Because damn, that boy is stunning. I mean, he’s never _not_ , but the suit he’s wearing hugs his body in all the right places, and… I’m far too gay for this.

“Oh, quiet,” he says, but I can see his blush and the tiny quirk of his mouth as he glances in the mirror. 

“Seriously, Percy,” because I can’t keep from running my mouth, apparently, “I always thought that, between the two of us, I was by far the more likely to end up a trophy husband, but if you show up at the gala looking like _that_ , you’ll be fighting off CEOs and trust fund kids tooth and nail.”

Percy laughs, then, before shaking his head and saying, “I think I’ll be forced to decline their offers.” I watch him in my full-length mirror as he moves, standing next to me and nudging my shoulder with his. “I’m taken, after all.”

He smiles at me in the mirror and I swear I melt, just a bit. I’ve spent the past two weeks with Percy as my boyfriend, fake as it all is, and it is killing me in the best possible way. We’re damn convincing, I think; even now we’re dressed in what can only be described as matching suits, definitely designed for a couple to wear. My family was invited to a launch party for the start-up of one of my father’s business partners. Or something along those lines; I stopped paying attention after I realized my father was forced by societal convention to bring the entire family. Including me, and—by extension—my plus one/boyfriend. It was perfect.

Not to mention, it got Percy in a nice suit and me on his arm.

“If you’re choosing me over them, you must want me for more than my money,” I tease back, linking our arms together and leaning on him, like an enamored woman in a fifties movie. “I’m ever so relieved.”

“They never could compete with you, Monty.” He maintains the same the same joking tone that the rest of our conversation has had, but he makes eye contact with me, not in the mirror, face to face, and his gaze is so _soft_ , so _fond_ , that it takes everything in me to not lean up and kiss him that moment. 

Sometimes, in my weaker moments, I let myself believe that he wants it, too. That he is looking at me that way, with less than three inches between our faces, because he, too, is desperate for me the way I am for him. That he agreed to this scheme because he wants to know what it’s like for me to be his. That he told my father that he loves me, not to sell our relationship, but as a way to finally let the truth out in the air, even if cloaked in a lie. That if I reach up and curl my fingers into his hair, show him I want this, he will close the distance between us.

“Monty! Percy! Stop snogging and come downstairs, we’re leaving!”

I yank my hand down—somehow it had gotten raised halfway to Percy’s hair—and he jumps backwards as we hear Felicity yell at us. _I’m going to murder her_ , is my first thought, followed immediately by _thank God she did that_. I was half a moment from doing something stupid enough to irrevocably change the most important relationship in my life. I can’t lose Percy, I remind myself, and silly what-ifs and half-cocked dreams aren’t nearly enough for me to risk it.

“She knows, she knows we’re not—” Percy starts, which catches me off guard again because I’d been trying so hard not to look at him that I’d almost forgotten he was there. I glance up and see the blush over his face, the way he moves the fingers of one hand over the arm of the other like it was the strings of his violin, and it’s clear he’s embarrassed, too. I can’t decide if that makes me feel worse or better.

“She knows it’s fake,” I confirm. I run my fingers through my hair as I look in the mirror, as if it’s my hair I’m checking and not the marvelous redness over my face and neck. “She’s just a menace.”

“Ah,” Percy says. I use the mirror to watch him for a moment, just because I can, and I imagine for a moment that I never have to look away. But then he meets my eyes in the reflection, and I turn towards the door. I can’t watch him forever, I can’t have him forever— I’m on borrowed time as it is.

“She’s right that we should be leaving, though,” I concede. “It’d be a sin for me to keep your dashing looks from the public.”

“And we wouldn’t want you carted off to hell, of course.”

“Darling, when I go to hell, I’ll ride down on a golden chariot.”

He snorts, and even that laugh of his is like music to me— Jesus, I’m a cliché. “Will there be room for me in this chariot to hell?”

“For you, Percy, always.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

The party’s been going on for two hours and I think I may have already had too much to drink. But, I tell myself, I’m hardly to blame me for that; the host was the one who offered an open bar. And the drunkenness was a lovely advantage in my attempt to absolutely butcher a conversation with a snotty trust-fund kid and disappoint my father- which is, of course, what I live for. Besides, how grossly over-privileged do you have to be to try to convince someone that it is better to spend one’s time investing in boats than getting an education? Society parties are nothing but good alcohol and bad people.

There is a silver lining: being drunk makes staring at Percy perfectly acceptable. Not to mention, we’re dating—as far as these people know, anyway—so I have free reign to stare at my beautiful best friend from across the room as he converses with all these assholes who don’t deserve a moment of his time.

“What’s so interesting over there?”

I’m jolted out of my reverie at the sound of a voice, low and rich and feminine. I turn and I am immediately struck by how incredibly attractive this person is. Gorgeous, a stop-and-stare-at beauty. Her shoulderless dress is a bright yellow that looks unspeakably lovely against her dark skin. Her eyes render me speechless— or maybe I’m just drunk.

She raises an eyebrow and her wine glass in the direction I was looking, and I remember then that speaking is a general expectation in most conversations. “Ah, just, just lost in thought,” I manage to force out and I wish for a moment that I was sober enough to be my usual, charming self.

“Or are you already drunk two hours into a party?” She guesses, and I laugh.

“Am I that obvious?”

She shrugs. “I’m good at reading people.” She holds out a hand for me to take. “Cordelia Spring.”

“Henry Montague, but please, call me Monty.”

“Ah, is this the ‘Henry is my father’ type thing?”

“On the nose,” I respond, a bit more tense.

I think her eyebrows furrow, but her face becomes neutral so fast that I might’ve imagined it. “Hmm. Henry Sr. not your favorite person?”

“You are good at reading people,” I offer. “I’m impressed.”

She smiles. “I’m glad. Most people skip impressed and go straight for calling me a bitch.”

I almost resist, _almost_ , but I am drunk— “Well, you’re in luck, I don’t go straight at all.”

It’s always tough chances with gay jokes at society parties, but I’ve got a good enough read on the situation that I’m barely surprised when she laughs. Seems Cordelia’s not the only one capable of reading people. “Oh, Monty, neither do I,” she responds. “But, tell me, do you go for women at all?”

“When there are such lovely ones in the world, how could I not?” I don’t manage to fuck up the wink I send her and I’m sure sober me will be so impressed at how well I’m handling the situation. “How about you and men?”

She gives me a once-over—it doesn’t take her long, I really am dreadfully short, and in heels she is several inches taller than I—before meeting my eyes again. “If they’re lucky.”

I turn a bit to pick up the drink I’ve left on the table behind me—because I _love_ where this conversation is going—but I must’ve forgotten why I was facing that way in the first place.

I make eye contact with Percy, standing across the room looking—there’s no other way to put it—heartbroken.

And then he turns and walks off, faster than I could process his expression.

“Shit,” I mutter, and turn back to Cordelia, drink forgotten. “I’m sorry, Cordelia, but I can’t—”

She leans away from me, nodding, maybe a tad disappointed. “There’s someone else?”

I purse my lips. “Yeah. ”

“The guy who just walked off, all slumped shoulders and heartbreak?” I nod. “And—this one’s just a follow up—you were staring at him before, not out into space?”

“Two for two.”

“Oh, we’re at least four for four now,” she corrects. “But I understand; pining’s a bitch. I’ve got my own Tall Dark and Moping. Well, technically, she’s more Short Light and Aggressively Peppy. Over there.” She nods towards a pretty young woman in a pink dress who seems to be animatedly telling a story to a crowd of no less than seven of the guests. “But, same situation. Now, you should probably follow your boy before he gets too lost in his misperceptions. But—” and she pulls out a pen from her clutch and scribbles on a napkin. “take my number. Not for a date!—” she amends when I open my mouth. “It’s just… Pining bisexuals have to stick together. And I think you’re interesting, Mr. Montague.”

“Why, thank you, Miss Spring. Good luck with your girl.” I pocket the napkin.

“And good luck with your boy. Now, off you go.” She nudges my arm, and it’s probably a testament to my drunkenness that the force of the push is actually helpful in getting me to start moving.

I usually enjoy that these parties are hosted in huge, ridiculous mansions, because of all the great places to steal away with pretty guests, but I quickly discovered that it becomes really fucking annoying when you’re seeking, rather than hiding. 

“Perce!” I call out, checking this floor’s third balcony. God, why does one family need so many balconies? And I thought _my_ family was showy with our money. “Percy!”

“Monty, please. You’re making a scene,” Felicity says, and I blame the shriek that escapes my mouth on the alcohol.

“Lord, Felicity, anyone ever told you not to sneak up on people?”

She adjusts her reading glasses with her wrist, as her one hand is on her hip and the other is occupied holding a book. “I didn’t sneak up on you- _you’re_ the one who barged into my space, disrupted my reading, and nearly revealed my hiding place. If you’ve just exposed me to these socialites and their passive-aggressive comments, I’ll—”

“Sorry to disturb you,” I interrupt, not even trying to keep the bite out of my voice. “Have you seen Percy?”

“Have I seen him, while I’ve been secluded up here, reading, on a balcony far above the party?” she repeats slowly, like I’m stupid.

But I know her better than that. “Have you seen him?”

She huffs. “He passed by a few minutes ago. Take a left when you leave, that’s where I last saw him.”

“And how was he?”

“He didn’t stop in for a chat, but from what I saw, he looked annoyed. And sad. I don’t know what you did to him, Monty, but you’d better apologize.”

I rake a hand through my hair and realize it might be actually, properly disheveled. Another tragedy. “I will.” And then, as an afterthought, because I guess alcohol makes me nice to my sister, “Thank you.”

She looks at me like I’ve grown a second head. “Any time, Monty. Now, leave me alone. I can’t learn about muscle makeup if I’m never given a moment to read.”

“Bye, Felicity.”

She doesn’t deign to respond, so I hurry off in the direction she told me. This search for Percy is turning into a bit of a wild goose chase, so much so that I might ditch it in favor of a cold drink and a nice couch if Percy hadn’t looked so… What was he? Hurt? Angry? Jealous?

Maybe it’s the drunk haze, but I allow myself to entertain that thought. Maybe he is jealous? If I saw Percy flirting with someone the way I was with Cordelia, I’d definitely feel the way he looked. And he really, honestly looked heartbroken. It was bloody awful to think of his face and the hurt etched across his features but, even so, it makes me almost hopeful. If he thought of me like that—

“Percy!” I yell, as I turn the corner and see him. “God, Perce, I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

“I wasn’t hiding.” His voice isn’t raised, he doesn’t even sound annoyed, really, just terse. Upset, and trying to cover it up with a layer of nothing.

“You ran off.”

“It was hardly running,” he bites back. “And you seemed busy.”

He sounds… so jealous. He saw me and he saw Cordelia and he is _jealous_. I have to ask it, “Percy, are you—”

“I thought—” he says over me, and the annoyance is now leaking into his raised voice. “You were the one who asked me to do this, Monty, you roped me into this. I thought you would take it seriously,” Percy says, and of course. Of course that's what he's mad about, _obviously_ he's not jealous. _He’s not jealous, Monty, he's not jealous because_ he doesn't love you, _you knew that already_.

God, my thoughts can get upsetting when I'm drunk.

“I am taking it seriously!” I fire back, and that’s a bold-faced fucking lie, but not because of Cordelia. I know I haven’t been taking it seriously. I’ve been treating it like it was real, leaning into his touches and pressing short kisses to his cheek at the dinner table and lacing my fingers through his, marveling at how much it was like the relationship we shared before I proposed this scheme, marveling at how easy it is, how easily we could keep doing this. I’ve been childish and stupid and I _know_ I’ve been, but this fantasy has an expiration date that seems to be rapidly moving up, and I wanted to enjoy it until then.

“And you consider flirting with the first person you see, at a public event that _you_ insisted we attend as boyfriends, to be ‘taking it seriously’?”

“I was just _talking_ to her!”

He scoffs and glares at the wall. “Monty, I have been your best friend for nearly two decades, if you think I don’t know how it looks when you want to sleep with someone—”

 _Clearly you don’t,_ I think, _or you’d have figured out I’m in love with you ages ago._ “Surprising though it may be, no one else in this mansion has been my best friend for that long, so how are they going to know?” He presses his lips together, the question throwing him off long enough that I can continue on: “And why does it even bloody matter to you, Perce? You the one who keeps saying it: this is my idea, my plan, so why do you fucking care so much?”

He buries his face in his hands for a moment before answering, “Because you’re my _friend_!” His voice cracks on the last word. “Obviously! Because I care about you, and you asked me to do this, so _of course_ I’m going to care if it works out or not!” He takes a moment to catch his breath, and I am left with no idea what to say. “It’s only another week, Monty. I thought we might as well be convincing until then.”

He’s taking a hand through his hair so that the curls spill out over his face, no longer pinned back, and we’re close enough now that I can see the slight redness rimming his eyes. He is beautiful. He’s more than beautiful. He’s Percy- musical genius, hilarious wit, thoughtful poet. Percy, my best friend. Percy, the love of my life. I want to kiss him. He’s mad at me and we’re arguing and he’s my best friend and I shouldn’t kiss him and _God_ do I want to kiss him.

“But,” he continues, voice just slightly hoarse from yelling—my God I really want to kiss him— “If it’s easier for you, maybe we should drop the whole thing.” Jesus, that’s not what I want. How doesn’t be see that? Maybe kissing him would get the message across. “Go enlist that girl you were talking about to be your new fake girlfriend, if she won’t mind you going and flirting with other people at parties. Maybe it won’t have the same effect because she isn’t a boy, so maybe you could pick one of those up off the party floor.” I don’t want anyone but him. Obviously. I should kiss him. “Or date them for real, even, because that was always a solution to this problem, but you just—”

I kiss him.

I have blamed a number of things on alcohol consumption tonight, but not this. This is my decision. I knew the consequences. And, all of sudden, I just decided that I didn’t care. I love him, more than anything, and I want him to know that.

He doesn’t do anything for a moment, just stands terrifyingly still, but as I begin to pull away, he puts his arms around my waist and his palms curved against the slope of my back and pulls me closer. He kisses me desperately, like he has been longing for this just as I have, deepening the kiss before I could even think of doing so. I cling to him. He clings to me. I tangle my fingers in his hair. He moves traces my jawbone with his fingertips, soft and gentle. When he murmurs, “ _Monty_ ” in the centimeter between our lips, I nearly cry.

But then the moment shatters.

He moves his hands to my shoulders and pushes me away from him. “Wait,” he says, and then, “ _shit_.” His breaths come heavy and labored, and his hair is wild, and I can’t see his mouth because he’s covered it with his hand and it’s killing me that I can’t fully see what he looks like just-kissed, because I need to memorize _everything_. Because it’s beginning to look like I won’t ever get to see it again. As the thought shoots through my mind, I can feel the tears welling up in earnest. _Good job, Monty, now you really fucked up._

“Perce—”

“Don’t.” He won’t look at me. Maybe it’s a blessing, because these tears are definitely going to spill over soon, but it’s painful, gut-wrenching that he can’t even bear to see my face. “Monty, please don’t.”

“I’m sorry—”

“I’m going home,” he announces. Without looking at me, he walks across the hall. Near the end, he stops. “I—” he cuts himself off, and I’m hanging on his every word, hoping desperately for something to change in his expression, in his tone, for things to magically fix themselves. “I’ll see you.” And then he’s gone.

I’m left there, pained and reeling and recounting my mistakes one by one. Kissing Percy. Kissing Percy while we were arguing. Arguing with Percy. Flirting with someone while I was allegedly Percy’s. Insisting we go to this party as a couple to embarrass my father. Starting this whole inane plot to act like a couple. Falling in love with my best friend.

I don’t regret the last one. Loving Percy has been a part of me so long that it feels intrinsic now. I don’t think I’ll ever stop loving him. I don’t think I ever _could_.

Even if he never wants anything to do with me ever again.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Monty, get out of bed!” Felicity yells from outside my room.

“Fuck off!” I call back. I yank my headphones towards me and shove them over my ears.

Three days ago, I left the gala in equal measures drunk and depressed, went home immediately, brought three bottles of vodka, half a carton of orange juice, and enough snacks to feed a small army into my room, and locked the door behind me. I’ve been in here since. It’s really not much of a bad existence; I’ve spent most of it either sleeping or so drunk that I might as well be.

In between bouts of immense self-pity, I’ve entertained myself texting Cordelia. I told her the whole story about the fake dating and the argument and the kiss, and she called me ridiculous, but it seemed to be in a sympathetic way. She tells me about herself and Lacey—the girl she fancies—so it’s all a very nice, “mutual-bisexual-disaster-overshare-friendship”, as she calls it. I do like hearing about her and Lacey; it makes me forget about Percy, at least for a bit.

I’ve been texting Percy almost as much as I’ve been texting Cordelia. I’d normally be texting him twice as much, but I’m a bit out of luck given that he refuses to respond. I’ve texted him apologies, lengthy explanations, pictures and videos I think he’d find funny, even violin music that seems like his style, but he doesn’t ever answer. Cordelia is a blessing because, when I’m not texting her, I just stare at the messages I’ve sent Percy, as if I can will him to respond.

I’m jolted from my thoughts by my door slamming open against the wall, loud enough to cut through my headphones and self-deprecation.

Kneeling in the doorway is Felicity, holding a number of small tools and wearing a smug expression on her face. “Did you pick my fucking lock?” I ask her, already knowing the answer. “Where’d you learn how to do that?”

“None of your business.” She marches over to me, jerks the headphones off of my head, and drops them unceremoniously on the floor. I groan in protest, but before I can say anything, she says, “You know I normally wouldn’t give a damn if you rotted away in this room instead of doing _anything_ that might actually serve to make you happy, but I’m not here for me. I’m here to tell you that Percy’s downstairs.”

“Now?”

“Yes.”

“He’s _here_?”

“Yes.”

“Shit.”

“Yes.” She looks me over. “Get dressed and brush your teeth and take some medicine for the hangover I’m sure you have. And don’t fuck up whatever’s about to happen.”

“I’ll try,” I snap back, but the sentiment is true enough. I genuinely have no idea what Percy doing here. Will he say we can stay friends as long as I’m not as affectionate? Or will he resent me for ruining it all? What if he never wants to see me again?

 _He kissed me back_ , is the thought I keep coming back to. Because he did. He _did_. He clung to me and held my face and said my name like a prayer. That has to mean _something_.

 _No, it doesn’t._ I remind myself, as I throw on a new shirt and fumble with the buttons. Sure, he kissed me back. But he also pushed me away. He refused to look at me and left me alone and ignored my texts. It was nothing more or less than what I deserved, of course. But those things were as real as any kiss, moreso, even. There’s no reason to have any hope.

But when I see him, standing in the parlor with the sun dancing over his skin and his curls falling around his face, there’s nothing I can do to force down hope.

“Hey, Perce.” Easy and casual, like my heart isn’t breaking just looking at him.

He turns like a dancer, quick and elegant. “Monty! Hi.” He smiles, which immediately makes me wonder if I imagined the last three days. Or if, perhaps, he didn’t remember what happened. But he hadn’t been drinking, and even my worst moments of drunken self-pity don’t conjure up such painful illusions. “I… I got your texts.”

“Ignore them,” I say the words so fast that they blend together. I hadn’t confirmed any romantic feelings in the texts—in fact, I’m still considering just using the drunk excuse as an easy get out of jail free card, even though he’s far too smart to believe it—but I sounded pathetic and desperate. I _am_ pathetic and desperate, of course, but I’d like to minimize Percy’s knowledge of that if I can. “Seriously, I’ve been consistently drunk for three days running now, I don’t even know what I said.” I get halfway through the sentence before realizing that that in no way makes me sound any more rational or composed, but it was too late by then. 

“I’m sorry for not responding,” he apologizes. “I was going to but I—”

I cut him off. “No, Percy, it’s fine, really. I don’t- It’s fine.”

“It isn’t. I shouldn’t have left you hanging like that, I just didn’t know what to say.” Which I understand perfectly. I don’t know what to say now, now that there’s this awkward tension between the two of us, an awkwardness I forced there, that I don’t know if we can escape. “We should— let’s sit. And talk about it.”

I stay standing, even as he takes a seat beside me. “We really don’t have to. Talk about it, that is,” I offer. I can’t bear to hear a rejection. Not from him, not falling from that mouth I kissed just three days ago, not the same voice that said my name so lovingly.

He puts his hand on my wrist. “I want to talk about it.” I let him tug me gently to the couch, and, with a sigh, I sit.

“Perce, if you want to write it off as a drunken mistake, just say it didn’t mean anything and go back to being friends, that’s fine, that’s _more_ than fine—”

“Monty I don’t want to go back to being friends,” he says, with hardly a breath between the words, most likely just trying to get me quiet. And it works, absolutely. My mouth hangs open, unable to think of anything I could do or say in response besides crying again. This was the exact thing I had been dreading. The thing that I knew I wouldn’t be able to survive. 

“Oh,” I say, and it’s a miracle that is isn’t a sob.

Percy’s eyes widen and he shakes his head. “No, Monty, no, that’s not what I meant; I’m—shit—I’m trying to say that I’m in love with you?” His voice turns up at the end, making it sound like more of a question than a statement, and yet it doesn’t sound unsure. I, on the other hand, feel what is probably the most unsure I’ve felt in my entire life because what the _fuck_?

I want to ask him to repeat it, to clarify, to do something, but all my voice can force out is another: “Oh.”

“Yeah. Wasn’t exactly the grand speech I’ve been planning the past few days but, Monty, I love you,” he says, and my heart is absolutely racing. “I only agreed to this stupid fake dating thing because I wanted to know how it felt to be with you. And I said all those things I did at that first dinner with your family because they were true. And when I saw you flirting with that girl at the party, it felt like my heart was broken because, even though I knew you weren’t actually mine, for these weeks it had felt like you were. And when you kissed me—” His voice falters a bit and he looks away, taking a breath before meeting my eyes again. “When you kissed me, I kissed back because—even if it didn’t mean anything—I needed to know what it would be like.”

“Percy—”

“And I know,” he interrupts. “I know you were drinking, and I know that it might not have meant anything, and I don’t expect you to feel the same. But I can’t keep lying to you about this. I can’t.” He covers my hand with his, gently, as if he expects me to pull away. I lace his fingers through mine. “If you want me to continue to pretend to date you, I will, of course. But if you think it would be too awkward, I understand. If you need time to think this all over, I can—”

“Percy, please be quiet and listen to me for one second,” I finally manage to say over him, because all these suggestions are unnecessary and I can’t believe he doesn’t know how I feel about him. “I love you too. Obviously. Jesus.”

“Oh!” He looks up at me, and I see the beginning of a smile on his face, thank God, but I’m not done.

“I thought you knew,” I say. “Or at least that you’d figured that out when I kissed you. God, I was so fucking scared, Perce, that you wouldn’t want anything to do with me after that. I mean, Christ, you wouldn’t even _look_ at me.”

His eyes widen and he takes my other hand so he’s holding both. “I didn’t— I— I’m sorry, Monty. I was… I was scared too. I knew you’d been drinking and there was that girl and I thought maybe you were just doing it to cut off the argument or that you’d figured out how I felt and you were just trying it out— I was scared. And I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry too, Perce. It wasn’t much of a gentlemanly way to kiss a guy for the first time, in the middle of an argument.” I see the quirk of his lips and I move a hand to the back of his neck. “I have to say, though, that it brought us here, so I don’t quite regret it.”

“What is ‘here’, exactly?— if you don’t mind defining it.”

“I mean, I’d really bloody like to be your boyfriend, your real one this time.”

He puts his hand on the side of my face, fingers tracing along my jaw, the same way he did when he kissed me. “And how much of that is to piss off your father?”

“No more than sixty percent.” He laughs. “But really, darling, even if my father had infinite approval of us, I would still be dying to date you.”

“High praise.” It comes out as an amused whisper in the inch between our faces. 

“Only the highest for you, love. Now,” I say, curling a strand of his hair around my finger. “How about you kiss me and—if anyone asks—we tell them this was our first kiss, not the drunk one from the middle of an argument?”

“Oh, and spare you the embarrassment?” He teases, trailing his fingertips down the side of my neck before settling his hand on my shoulder.

“I am very well known for my romantic charisma and suave nature, and I will not let you ruin that.”

“So, to be clear, you _don’t_ want me telling the press that you roped me into a fake-dating scheme for nearly two weeks instead of doing the sensible thing and asking me out, an offer I would have gladly accepted?”

“This is slander. You’re _slandering_ my good name with this misinformation—” I moved slightly away from him with my exclamation, but he draws me back with a hand on the back of my neck. “—And now everyone will think awful, awful things of me, is that what you want? A boyfriend with a spoiled reputation?”

“Darling, I don’t give a damn about your reputation, you must know that,” Percy promises, running a thumb just under the neckline of my shirt. “And if you’re half as good a real boyfriend as you were a fake one, you could have the worst reputation in the world and I wouldn’t care.”

“Well, I guess you’ll have to kiss me and find out just how good I am.”

He laughs before doing exactly that. 

And sitting on that couch, warm from the sunlight and his arms around me, smiling against his mouth, my mind is flooded with three thoughts:

I love him, and he loves me, and it is so damn nice, having something defined.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all so much for reading!! A couple notes:
> 
> -i... really don't love the ending of this. but i wrote everything up till the end nearly two months ago and i knew if i didn't just write /something/, this would never get posted. so it is what it is.
> 
> -the ages are kinda nebulous here, but im imagining the boys are in college, maybe first or second year, but they're home on summer break. monty hasn't kicked his drinking habit or left behind his life at his home yet, but that will presumably come soon
> 
> -title comes from the song "History Read" by a lovely band called The Altogether
> 
> -a special thanks to my lovely lovely beta reader, without whom this story would be 10x the mess it is now
> 
> that's it!! i really hope yall liked this; let me know what you think! kudos and comments especially absolutely make my life. Have a lovely day!!


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